


The Refugees

by bluebellsandcocklesshells



Series: 642 Prompts [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Kid!Fic, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:12:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6747883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellsandcocklesshells/pseuds/bluebellsandcocklesshells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prompt 2 of 642: Write last year’s fortune cookie.  It got everything right.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Refugees

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 2 of 642: Write last year’s fortune cookie. It got everything right.

As Castiel watched the chandelier swing from its snapped cord and into the priceless work of art he’d spent months procuring for an exhibition that was currently in a state of chaos as people screamed and ran and some attempted to put out fires and others tried to catch the lose army of rats skittering about, he could actually hear the finale to the “1812 Overture” playing in his head.

It didn’t seem quite real.  Like this scenario was something that could only happen in comedy movies.  He couldn’t even fathom what it meant for his career, his reputation, or if the meager insurance he’d purchased for the event would cover any of it.  The only thing that really stood out in his head was… _Winchesters_.

Castiel turned around very slowly.  He saw them on the balcony looking slightly more amused than horrified by what they had done.  Dean and Sam Winchester—fourteen and ten years old respectively.  The two hellions he’d been assigned when he’d _symbolically_ volunteered to take in _one_ of the child refugees that the crumbling fundraiser he’d organized was meant to benefit.

They looked down and saw him staring up at them.  Sam shrank against his brother’s side.  Dean, for once, didn’t look hostile or bitter—he looked a little guilty.  The boy dropped his eyes and fidgeted with his fingers.  Castiel clenched his jaw.  He knew they’d been angry and grieving.  They’d lost their home in the fires, their mother, their father was in a coma—he’d understood that they might be difficult to live with.  But he hadn’t expected them to resent him so much.  He hadn’t expected them to…hate him.

He turned his back on them and looked around the room again.  He was still overwhelmed and had no idea what he should try to address first.  His brain was trying so hard to ignore everything that it fell back on a memory from about a year ago.

At twenty-five he’d just received the honor of being the youngest person ever promoted to vice president at Heaven’s Garrison—the prestigious tech firm that essentially ruled the Internet.  Sure there might have been a bit of nepotism involved, but he had earned the position.  He’d gone out to celebrate with his friends and they’d chosen a private room at their favorite Chinese restaurant rather than a four star restaurant.  He remembered holding the fortune from his cookie in his hand—knowing that it was a sign of all the good that was going to come his way.

_You will be a part of an exciting event._

He surveyed the pandemonium around him again.  Well, he supposed it hadn’t been wrong.

Sirens of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks started to draw closer.  People were slipping on the glass and crystal shards from the smashed chandelier as they attempted to get to the exits.  Castiel knew he couldn’t stand around dumbfounded forever, so he turned back to the balcony and motioned for the brothers to come down.

They moved cautiously and flinched as Castiel came closer to them.  Without a word he ushered them toward an exit and out into fresher air.

“Are either of you hurt?  Did the smoke get in your lungs?”

They shook their heads.

“Burns, glass cuts, rat bites?”

They hung their heads ashamedly, but shook their heads no.  Castiel put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean, I can’t leave now, but the apartment is only a couple of blocks of away.  Please take Sam there.  I trust you to look after him.”

Dean nodded and for once didn’t have a snide comment about how it was his job to take care of Sam and Castiel and his money could go fuck themselves.

“Please don’t go anywhere else.  Please don’t leave.  Just go to the apartment where I know you’ll be safe, okay?”

Dean nodded.

“We promise,” Sam said firmly and sent his brother a look.

Castiel nodded and returned to the museum’s ruined great room.  A group of people being interviewed by the police spotted him, and then pointed at him.  Castiel sighed, and then straightened and buttoned his suit coat professionally.  He had better get this over with.

~~~

Castiel didn’t get home until almost three in the morning.  He was covered in dried sweat and slightly sooty.  He’d lost track of his coat and tie at some point, but he didn’t care if he ever got them back.  His feet and back were killing him.  All he wanted was a shower, a heating pad, and a good, stiff drink.  But he had other responsibilities now.

Repressing a grumble, he walked through his luxury apartment—which now had a hole in a wall, a burn mark on the ceiling over the stove, stains on the hardwood floors, and rips in the furniture’s upholstery—to the room where Sam Winchester had more or less made his home for the last five months, three weeks, and four days.  Not that Castiel was keeping meticulous track of that or anything.

He opened the door slowly and quietly, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.  Sam’s bed was empty.

“Shit.”

He ran down the hall to Dean’s room and opened the door quickly, expecting to find it empty as well; it wouldn’t be the first time they’d attempted to run away.  But Dean was there, sitting at the desk Castiel had bought for him and reading a book.  He started at Castiel’s abrupt appearance, but quickly put his finger to his lips.  He nodded over his shoulder at the bed.  Sam was asleep on top of the covers.

Castiel felt relieved when he saw the boys safe at home—well…in his apartment.  He waited for the anger or irritation that usually accompanied dealing with their bullshit, but at the moment all he felt was relief.

Dean stood up from the desk with a sheet of paper in his hand and walked over to Castiel.  He exited the room and closed the door behind him so that Sam wouldn’t be disturbed.  In silent agreement, they made their way to the kitchen and Dean handed over the paper.  Sam had written Castiel a note.

_Cas,_  
 We’re very sorry about the funraiser.  We didn’t know what would happen.  You have been very nice and genarous to us.  We hope you are not in trouble.  We will help clean up.  I also have $37 dollars if you need it.  
Love, Sam

Castiel raised an eyebrow at the sign off, but he supposed that’s just how little kids were accustomed to signing things.  He folded the note carefully and put it into his pocket.  He glanced at Dean as he opened the refrigerator.

“There was a lot of ‘we’ in that note,” he commented.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t make eye contact.  “Yeah, well…it is ‘we.’  I mean…”  Dean let out a noise of frustration.  “Shit, Cas, you have to know we didn’t mean for any of _that_ to happen.”

Castiel nodded vaguely and got out two small shot glasses.  He poured a shot of wheatgrass juice into each.  Dean made a pained expression.

“Is this going to be my punishment?” he asked as Castiel pushed the shot over to him.

“Part of it,” Castiel replied.  “I think you owe me this much.”

Dean grunted but diligently swallowed down the shot.  He gagged softly.  “Oh, that is disgusting.”

Castiel hid his smile by drinking his own shot.  He put his glass down and examined Dean carefully.  He was a tough kid—made tougher by the fact that he was much too pretty to be a tough kid.  He’d been through a hell of a lot of hardship in the past few months, but he hadn’t broken under it.  Castiel had seen him grow stronger with each passing day.  He just wished the kid could exercise a little common sense every now and then.

“Are you going to kick us out?” Dean demanded harshly.  Castiel could see the uncertainty and trepidation in Dean’s eyes even though his expression was hard and uncaring.

“I certainly wouldn’t put out Sam.”

Dean bristled.  “I will _not_ leave my brother.”

“I’m aware of that,” Castiel said smoothly.

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but then realized that meant that Castiel wouldn’t put either of them out.  That he understood perfectly that the brothers were a package deal.  He deflated.

“Are you that unhappy here?” Castiel asked, curious but also hurt that despite their constantly butting heads the tenuous rapport they’d formed seemed to be completely one-sided.  “Do you really hate me that much?”

“I don’t—”  Dean put his hands on the marble countertop—something he had bitched at Castiel about for being tacky and a waste of good money—and pressed his fingers on it until the tips turned white.  “I don’t hate you, Cas.  It’s—it’s not even about you.  Not really.  I’m just an asshole.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed.

Dean looked up.  “Not even going to disagree?” he asked wryly.

“Should I?” Castiel shot back and gave him a small smile.

Dean blushed and looked down.  Castiel suspected that part of the reason that Dean had been so hostile toward him was the fact that the teenager had a bit of a crush on him—and wasn’t yet okay with the idea that he liked guys in that way.

“So, what’s going to happen?” Dean mumbled.

“Well.  The good news is that nobody was hurt.  The bad news is that I won’t be able to return a twenty million dollar painting to its owners.”

Dean winced.

“But…I guess it’s true that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.  My people told me before I came home that donations have been coming in from all over the world to help the survivors of the Kansas Fires.  There should be enough for people to be able to rebuild and get back on their feet.  And to cover medical expenses and…other expenses.”

Dean nodded.

“And…a lot of people are offering their homes to those who need a place to stay.  If you and Sam would like someone closer to home to take you in for awhile.”

Dean went still.  Castiel put the container of wheatgrass back in the refrigerator and washed out their shot glasses.

“Do you want us to go?” Dean asked finally, in a small voice.

Castiel looked at the paint stains on his expensive custom made kitchen sink.  He considered the ongoing nightmarish fallout he would have to navigate in the upcoming weeks.  He thought about everything he’d had to replace in his apartment in the last six months—and the stuff he’d given up on replacing.  He thought about how his romantic life had completely dried up and his friends complained that he was never available to hang out anymore.  He thought about the shouting matches and the endless maddening frustration.  He thought a little bit about the laughter, and the way Sam’s smile and Dean’s smirk could almost make him forget all that other stuff.

“Are you kidding?” Castiel asked as he walked past Dean.  “And inflict the two of you on some poor unsuspecting saps?  Nah.  I better keep you.”

He caught the look of surprise on Dean’s face, and then turned his back on him as he made his way to his room and finally a hot shower.

“Turn off the lights and go to bed, Dean.”

Faintly, so faint that Castiel thought he might have imagined it, he heard Dean speak.

“Thanks, Cas.”


End file.
